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Alex Coal, Isiah Maxwell Pic(s)
The familiar scent of his skin, a blend of clean laundry and the faint, musky sweetness of sleep, filled the space between them as her fingers traced the line of his jaw. A low, involuntary hum vibrated in her throat, a sound she had never dared make before, answered by the sharp intake of his breath. The worn cotton of his t-shirt was soft beneath her palm as she slid her hand over the firm plane of his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath. His eyes, dark and wide with a mixture of shock and undeniable hunger, locked with hers, erasing years of casual distance in a single, searing glance. The warmth of his body seeped through their clothes, creating a private summer in the dim quiet of the room, a world built just for this collision. When his lips finally met hers, it was not a gentle exploration but a claiming, a desperate tasting of a long-forbidden fruit. Every nerve ending sparked to life under the slow, deliberate stroke of his thumb agat the sensitive skin of her wrist, a touch that felt both entirely new and hauntingly familiar. The weight of him pressing her deeper into the cushions was an anchor, holding her fast to this moment of delicious, terrifying freefall. In the hushed stillness, the only sounds were the ragged symphony of their breathing and the soft rustle of fabric yielding to impatient, exploring hands.
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